


Little Moments

by WhosInTheAttic



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Collection, Episode: s04e13 Journey's End, F/M, Fluff, Pete's World, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhosInTheAttic/pseuds/WhosInTheAttic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles that take place in Pete's World after the events of Journey's End.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On the Sofa

The Doctor is asleep on the couch, a copy of _Moby Dick_ open against his chest. One arm is clutched over the spine of the book; to Rose, it looks almost tender. His other arm hangs limply from the edge of the sofa, the back of his hand resting on the rug. His too-long legs were propped on the armrest. His head, supported by throw pillows is tilted toward her, his lips slightly parted, a bit of dribble at the corner of his mouth.

Rose loves seeing him this way, and while she takes pleasure in knowing he would be embarrassed to discover he'd been seen dribbling in his sleep (and even heard _snoring_ , albeit quietly), what she loves most was seeing him still, all that nervous energy tucked away; vulnerable, and so… _human_. The sight of him stretched out on their sofa this way is a reminder of everything they have in this new life together.


	2. Good Morning

Rose awakes to the dim morning light sifting in through the blinds. She can tell by the smell of the air coming in through the cracked window that it's been raining, and she can hear birds in the tree in the back garden. She's a bit thankful for the dreary weather; sometimes their bedroom can be too bright, and it almost feels like waking up beneath an Inspector's flood-lamp. It's mornings like this that she absolutely loves; not just because she's slept in today, and feels well-rested, but because two years ago, she would've never thought it possible.

She can feel the Doctor's arm tucked under her pillow; his other is curled around her torso and cupping her breast, holding her closer to him. The skin of his chest and stomach is hot against hers, his chest hair tickling at her back and making her itch, but she's so content she doesn't want to move. She wonder if his arm under her pillow has gone to sleep. They're fitted together curve for curve, despite their height difference, and Rose's feet are pressed to the tops of his feet, and now that she's awake she has a need to move. She curls her toes just a little bit and strokes the tops of his feet, letting his hairs tickle her. He lets out a sleepy growl, and the arm around her flexes gently, and his leg shifts over hers. His face nestles into her ear, and the regular intervals of breath from his nose tickle the fine wisps along her hairline. Her shoulders tense at the sensation, and she suppresses a grin. She puts a hand over the hand situated on her breast and traces a path along the valleys between his knuckles and through the hair on the backs of his manly hands to the little knobby bone at his wrist, and then back again. She feels him smile against the place where her neck and shoulder join, and he plants a kiss there.

"Good mornin'," Rose whispers, and it seems almost too loud, and she worries she's spoiled the moment.

"Good morning," he replies, his voice still gravelly with sleep. He clears his throat, "Sleep well?"

"Yeah," she says, and stills her hand on his.

The Doctor plants a kiss on her shoulder, "Me too." He shifts, reluctantly disentangling himself from her to stretch his disused muscles. "What do you want for breakfast?" he asks through a slight yawn.

Rose rolls over and curls into his side, bringing a leg slightly over his, and running the fingertips of one hand through the hair on his chest. She gives him a mischievous smile, and her fingers drift lower across the expanse of his flat stomach, she looks him in the eye and says, "You."


	3. A Case of the Flu

"I'm dying Rose!" the Doctor groans, "I'm _sure_ of it." She's sitting beside him on the bed that they share.

"Don't be so melodramatic," she chides him gently, plucking the thermometer from his mouth, "You've jus' got a flu."

"A horrible flu," he whinges, "A bird flu. A _swine_ flu." He closes his eyes and sighs, settling into the pillows; the bedclothes are twisted haphazardly from having been pulled over him and cast off repeatedly as he'd passed between fits of overheating and chills.

"Thirty-eight an' a half," she says, furrowing her brows, "You're still runnin' a bit hot, love." She presses a cool cloth to his forehead.

"That's because I have West Nile," his says, his bottom lip jutting in a small pout.

Rose stifles a giggle, "They don't even _have_ that in this universe, Doctor." She wets the cloth again in the basin on the night table, wrings it out, and pats it along his cheek, down his neck and across his chest before placing it on his forehead again.

"Even so, I can't remember the last time I felt this _awful_ ," he groaned, "even when I was suffering infection from far more advanced viruses."

"Well then," she said, "'S a good thing I've brought you some chicken soup, yeah?" she gestures to the bowl on the night table. "Mum's recipe."

He cocked an eyebrow in mock suspicion before smiling sweetly at her. "Rose Tyler, you are _wonderful_."


	4. Morning Tea

Rose is sitting at the kitchen table having tea and a breakfast muffin, and the Doctor emerges from the bedroom, yesterday’s shirt thrown on and buttoned haphazardly, hair disheveled, and his ‘spare’ brainy specs perched on the bridge of his nose; he’s wearing his pants but no trousers. “Good morning,” he says cheerily, his voice still casting off the last vestiges of sleep.  
Rose smiles at him, and lifts the kettle from the Formica tabletop and offers, “Tea?” he nods and reaches under his specs to rub his eye before leaning down to plant a kiss on the top of her head, pausing a moment to enjoy the flowery scent of her hair. She hands him the morning paper and fills the empty cup that she’d previously set in his place as he settles into his chair.

“Sleep well?” he asks, opening the paper.

“Very,” she sips her tea and gives him a knowing look as his face disappears behind the newsprint. “And you?” she asks, eyebrow arched and tongue poking at the corner of her smile. He lowers the paper enough so that she can see the skin around his eyes crinkling with the effort of a smile, eyebrows waggling. “Very.”

If every morning were like this morning, and every night were like last night, this new stationary life on Parallel Earth would be…fantastic.


End file.
